


Honeymoon From Hell, or A Sherlockian Sex Holiday

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Attempted Murder, Happy Ending, Honeymoon, M/M, Sequel, Sexy Sherlock, lusty John, sex holiday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2018-12-30 04:48:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12101058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: A sequel (of sorts) to "What the Landlady Found Outside Her Back Door", where Sherlock met Mrs Hudson for the first time. This is an extension of that story, taking place many years later, when John and Sherlock go on their honeymoon to Florida and run into a situation Sherlock had thought was resolved long ago...





	1. Another Day, Another Bullet

“I’m bored.”

 

John looked up from his book. “Well, nice to meet you, bored. I’m John.”

 

“Not funny,” the muffled voice came back. “I’m not having fun anymore.”

 

“Well, if you’d put on the sunscreen, like I told you to, you wouldn’t have gotten sunburned and we _would_ be having fun,“ John sassed back. “Although, I must admit, I’m _really_ enjoying the view. _All_ of it.”

 

“Prat.”

 

It was true. The view out their patio doors and past the white cement balcony was _breathtaking_ , all green palms and sun-drenched colors surrounding a pool full of turquoise water, and the strip of beach beyond, where the breakers made for a panoramic vista only found on carefully photographed post cards. The gentle breeze and the distant sound of the surf were wonderfully calming and filled John with a contented lassitude.

 

Of course, the view _inside_ the room was pretty damned spectacular, too. The suite was impeccably decorated in beachy greens and beiges, with bamboo furniture and light, airy artwork adorning the walls. The pale curtains billowed into the room with the scented breezes.

 

However, John’s _favorite_ view was lying stretched out on the king-sized bed in their suite. It was a tall, slender, _naked_ man, beet red except for a thin stripe of pale white skin around the shapely hips and buttocks. He was lying on his stomach, his dark thatch of curly hair indenting the pillow, his face turned away. John could watch _that_ view for hours, and had been.

 

“ _That_ …is the comeliest arse I have _ever_ had the pleasure of beholding,” John quipped, as he took a sip of iced tea from his tall glass, garnished with lemon and mint. “If it weren’t for the sunburn, I would be asking for the privilege of pounding it into the mattress.”

 

“No problem,” came the muffled response. “Just as long as you don’t touch the rest of my back.”

 

There was a sharp rap at the door of the suite. John took his precious time levering himself out of the low chair and, stopping first to run an appreciative hand over Sherlock’s bare arse and throw a silk robe over him, sauntered to the door and opened it. Standing in the doorway were two men in dark suits, conspicuous for their strange apparel in the heat of Florida’s summer. One pulled out his ID and John read it closely. “Yes, may I help you?” he asked, innocently, because, for once, he was.

 

The older man stepped in closer. “Yes, I’m August Doyle, Senior FBI Agent for this area. My partner and I have a few questions for a Mr….” he consulted his notepad, “Sherlock Holmes. Would Mr. Holmes happen to be in, by any chance?”

 

John nodded. “He is, but he’s…indisposed at the moment. May I tell him what…”

 

“No,” the older man said, rudely. “I want to talk to him _now_.”

 

“John, who…ah, Agent Doyle. I would say it’s a pleasure to see you again but then I could be accused of perjury,” a pleasant, baritone voice came from behind John, who turned quickly to see Sherlock, fully covered by the silk robe that he, himself, had bought for Sherlock _specifically_ for their honeymoon. He was barefooted and his hair was tousled but, other than that, was the same supercilious git John had fallen in love with all those years ago. He stood, arms crossed, waiting for a response.

 

A muscle jumped in the older man’s cheek. “Mr. Holmes, I’m here to determine if you are involved in a case involving this division.”

 

“What case?” Sherlock asked, archly.

 

“ _Any_ case,” Doyle responded, pointedly. “I had advised your handler _years_ ago that he should notify me if you were ever to be in the vicinity again. Seems he forgot to mention it to me.”

 

“Not at all, Agent Doyle,” Sherlock replied, smoothly, walking toward then like a jungle cat stalking a rodent. “You see, I am here with my _new husband_. We are on our Sex Holiday…”

 

“Honeymoon,” John corrected, over his shoulder.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and said, “Whatever. Suffice to say, we are _not_ involved in _any_ case and do _not_ intend to become so involved. Now, if you would be so kind as to remove yourselves from our doorway, my husband was about to molest me in the most shocking manner possible, which I will undoubtedly enjoy, so, if you don’t mind…” He indicated the hallway with an elegant sweep of his hand.

 

The younger agent’s face spoke volume, but Agent Doyle was unfazed. “I remember you mannerisms, Mr. Holmes, and I am _not_ put off by them. If I find out you’re going behind my back…”

 

“God forbid, Agent Doyle. You’re not my type. However, if I _do_ get caught up in something exciting, other than what my husband has planned, I shall _definitely_ let you know.” Reaching out, Sherlock slammed the door in the agent’s faces.

 

“Strange one, sir,” the younger agent observed.

 

Doyle huffed laughter. “Son, you don’t know the half of it. And work on that poker-face some more. You may not believe this, but _that man_ …” he pointed to the recently-slammed door, “is one of the _greatest_ detectives I have ever had the dubious pleasure to meet. He will _also_ fry your brain with weirdness. Be alert.”

 

They turned and walked to the elevator and pressed the down button.

 

>>>***<<<

 

John turned and demanded, “What the hell was all that about?”

 

Sherlock shrugged. “’May old acquaintance be forgot…’ Hmmph, if only.” He turned and walked back into the bedroom, shedding his robe as he went. As usual, the sight caused an involuntary twitch in John’s nether regions, seeing that svelte body sashaying to the bed with no hint of body consciousness whatsoever. He laid down on his side on the bed and gestured seductively. “Come here, husband, I have need of you.”

 

“Oh, God,” John murmured. Ever since their first time together, Sherlock had become more and more insatiable in his sexual habits. Having let the genie out of the bottle, John was having a hard time controlling it. Forty years of celibacy, aside from the occasional wank to relieve tension, had left Sherlock touch-starved and increasingly wanton in his appetites. He was also fucking impossible to resist.

 

“Sherlock, why don’t we go down to the shady end of the pool and you can sit there and soak your back and legs in the cold water. It’ll take a lot of the sting out of…”

 

Sherlock mock-pouted. “Tired of me already, John? Maybe I should have held out for _another_ 40 years…”

 

John grinned. What an endearing berk he’d married! “No, love,” he chuckled. “I’m just afraid that we’ll get too _involved_ in things and, well, you remember what happened the _last_ time…”

 

He sat up on the side of the bed, all long body, arms and legs. “Hmm, good point. I can’t lie on my back yet, even though my front is perfectly healthy, as you can see.”

 

John certainly _could_ see—one of the most enticing erections he’d seen in a long time was awaiting his further scrutiny. Without a second thought, John found himself on his knees, lips wrapped around that noble staff, sucking Sherlock’s intellect out of his brain and into his mouth as the detective moaned and pleaded and pulled John’s hair until he decorated the back of John’s throat like a Jackson Pollack painting.

 

He stood, sporting his own spectacular woodie, which Sherlock seized with great glee and popped into his mouth like an all-day lollie. Those fantastically-talented lips drew gasps of pleasure and entreaties from John’s very core as his cock pulsed and thrust into Sherlock’s mouth until he, too, was a whimpering mess, his cum rocketing down Sherlock’s throat and swallowed down greedily. Sherlock never did seem to have a problem with testing _anything_ by mouth. John thanked God for that fact every day.

 

Now that they were both thoroughly sated, they agreed to follow through on John’s plan; to soak Sherlock’s sunburnt parts in the pool to remove the heat from them. Sherlock managed to wriggle into his form-fitting boxer Speedo, despite the pain and John’s offer of a pair of loose trunks. John didn’t complain, though. The view was fantastic.

 

“John? Shall we?” Sherlock rumbled, throwing a towel debonairly over his shoulder and wincing.

 

“Ponce,” John chided him, affectionately.

 

“I do it all for you, John,” Sherlock whispered as they headed out the door. “No one else compares.”

 

John grinned as the two made their way to the pool. It was true; Sherlock _never_ looked at other men the same way he looked at John, and it made John feel 6 feet tall. After they had chosen two chairs together for their towels, they both sat in the shallow end of the pool, where there were seating ledges in the shade.

 

“This,” Sherlock admitted, “is very relaxing. Not that I could survive the tedium for long, unless you still want to go to Disney World or Universal Studios…”

 

“I do. We came all this way, Sherlock. Indulge your inner child…”

 

“You get angry with me when I do that.”

 

“No, I get angry when you put the thumbs in the same kind of bottle as the olives and set them _next_ to each other. Other than that…”

 

They bantered back and forth while enjoying the gentle ocean breezes and the rustle of palm trees directly overhead. A couple of Mojitos greased the conversation and befuddled the senses enough that they hardly noticed the dull **_ping_** between them until someone nearby started screaming. They turned around in time to see a young woman in a two-piece bathing suit stand up, wringing her hands, as bright red blood spurted from a wound in her left shoulder. She dropped as if pole-axed.

 

“Shit! Call for an ambulance!” John yelled and he scrambled out of the pool and to the young woman’s side. A quick evaluation of the wound and John called it a possible gunshot wound, through-and-through. He applied pressure to the entry and exit wounds simultaneously but the blood kept coming.

 

“John?” Sherlock hovered over his husband.

 

“Arterial blood, too much. May have bisected the brachial artery,” he gritted out. “So much for our nice, quiet little honeymoon in Florida, eh?”

 

The ambulance screamed into the hotel parking lot, where paramedics tumbled out and ran to the pool out back. In minutes, they had an IV in place, had used a clotting spray, and were loading the girl onto a stretcher. John found a towel and wiped the blood off his hands as the police arrived. A middle-aged officer came straight up to them. “You the one who called the police?” he asked, all business.

 

John shook his head. “No, that was someone else. I attended to the young woman who was shot.”

 

The officer’s ears pricked up. “Your name?”

 

“Dr. John H. Watson.”

 

“Shot, you say? Did you see who did it?”

 

John shook his head. “No, I didn’t…”

 

“It hit the edge of the pool between the two of us and skipped off, striking the victim on the rebound,” Sherlock added, calmly.

 

The officer looked at Sherlock suspiciously. “And you are…?”

 

“Sherlock Holmes, Consult…”

 

John elbowed him sharply and Sherlock shut up, but not without a look full of malignant promise.

 

“And you are here for…?”

 

John stole an arm around Sherlock and said, proudly, “Our honeymoon. We just got married.”

 

The officer looked less than impressed. “Yeah, great. Congratulations.”

 

“And to you, as well, on your recent promotion,” Sherlock observed. The officer stopped and stared at him.

 

“How did you know…”

 

“New stripes, new thread attaching them. All the other ones are older and of a slightly different design,” Sherlock replied, as if bored by the conversation.

 

The officer continued to stare. “Uh, yeah. Okay. Thanks.” He turned back to John and asked, “Are you staying here? We may need more information…”

 

John smiled and said, “Yes, we are. We’re in one of the cabana rooms. You can leave a message for us at the front desk, as we may be in and out during the day.”

 

The officer turned back to staring at Sherlock as he replied, “Okay, thanks. You know…” he pointed at Sherlock,”you look familiar…”

 

“I have a _very_ common face,” Sherlock said, dismissively. John grinned. Commonplace, Sherlock was not, on _any_ front.

 

“Uh huh,” the officer said, obviously not buying it. As he walked away, Sherlock hissed, “Why did you stop me?”

 

“Because we’re here on a sex hol— _honeymoon_ , dammit, now you’ve got _me_ saying it—and I don’t want to get involved with any local crimes. Didn’t you hear the FBI agent?” John hissed back.

 

“If it’s local, it can’t _possibly_ involve the FBI, so we’re ‘in the clear’, so to speak,” Sherlock stated, primly.

 

“How’s your back?” John asked solicitously.

 

“Better, thank y…ah, I see what you’re getting at. If we get involved in a criminal investigation…”

 

“No more sex holiday,” John finished. “So, what do you want to do, sleuth or fuck?”

 

Sherlock pouted slightly. “You mean, we can’t do both?”

 

“We can do _one_ right now…” John leered.

 

Sherlock grinned. “Let’s go.”

 

Off they went, having retrieved their own towels, and returned to their scenic hotel room. Once there, John took a shower to remove the blood from his body and swimsuit. He was later joined by Sherlock, who made sure they wasted plenty of water in the pursuit of the perfect orgasm. Once dry again, they sent out for dinner, with the plan of spending another night in the room before venturing out to the ‘tourist traps’, as Sherlock viewed them, of the area around them.

 

A sharp rap on the door got their attention. Sherlock’s eyebrow rose. “Don’t answer it, John.”

 

John stopped just short of the door and pulled his hand back from the knob. “Sherlock?”

 

“Just, come back here, John. That is _not_ room service.”

 

John rejoined Sherlock by the bed. “Maybe it’s the police.”

 

“No. They would be more insistent and would repeat the effort, and room service would knock more _politely_ and call out. I just heard footsteps run away from the door after the knock. Call the front desk and ask them to call security,” Sherlock instructed, not taking his eyes off the door.

 

John did as he was directed and the two waited together. After what seemed a long time, there was a commotion outside the door that lasted several minutes. Finally, a voice said, “Security.” Another voice added, “And police. Open the door _immediately_.”

 

Sherlock waved John back and walked to the door. “Have you defused the device?” he asked.

 

There was a pause, then a voice said, “Yes, it was a simple one, wired to the doorknob. We have taken it away and the bomb squad will dispose of it safely. Please open the door; we have a lot of questions.”

 

“No fewer than I have, I can assure you,” Sherlock replied as he opened the room door and beheld a hall full of uniforms. One in particular pushed his way in. “I was eating downstairs when I heard about a possible incident in _this_ _room_. I thought you weren’t on a case, Mr. Holmes,” Agent Doyle said, accusingly.

 

“I’m _not_. I’m as much in the dark as _you_ are, Agent,” Sherlock stated, all offended innocence.

 

His face registered skeptical surprise. “If that’s the case, then why were you involved in a shooting down at the pool earlier today?”

 

Sherlock looked down his long nose at Doyle. “ _I_ wasn’t. My husband attended to the victim, that’s all.”

 

“He knew the victim had been shot before anyone else did.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes out loud. “Oh, for God’s sake, the girl was bleeding profusely from the shoulder. What did you think it was, a poisoned dart? A supersonic arrow? The Spear of Longinus? Really, Agent Doyle, you are barking up the wrong tree here. Go see if the girl has any frustrated exes or traitorous friends. I have nothing for you.” He turned and walked back into the suite to rejoin John. ”By the way, if you pass an abandoned dinner on a cart, it’s probably ours. Do send it up, won’t you?”

 

The agent stared after the lanky detective and, after a “can you believe this guy?” head shake, he made his way out of the room and down the hall. A few minutes later, a food cart arrived. “Courtesy of Agent Doyle,” the officer who delivered it said.

 

Sherlock smirked as the two of them sat down to eat. John was busy suppressing a grin. “Why do you have to bait the police at every turn, Sherlock? Not that it isn’t terribly amusing, but…”

 

“The caliber of law enforcement doesn’t change with location, John. They are all low-level morons with a badge who can’t see what is clearly standing in front of them,” Sherlock replied, calmly. “I am not here to make up for their deficiencies.”

 

John just shook his head in amusement. God, he loved this man.


	2. All In A Day's Work

The rest of the evening was spent in a lively discussion, of sorts. After a gin-and-tonic or two out on the balcony, John made a statement to the effect that he could hump a hole into the mattress right then. Sherlock, righteous man that he was, noted that the mattress had done nothing to merit such abuse and was, in fact, a very young mattress with a lifetime of good works ahead of it. This irritated John, who asked since when Sherlock had taken to the defense of mattresses and asked if he would be willing to put his money where his mouth was, in essence. Sherlock stated, in return, that it was always his pleasure to do so, but, as they were talking about mattresses, not fellatio, they should stick to the matter at hand.

 

John, being unimpressed with Sherlock’s verbal arguments, inquired if Sherlock would be willing to spare the mattress in question by using his own body as a buffer. Sherlock considered this, discussing the pros and cons of such a measure, until John, having given up on trying to convince Sherlock of the wisdom of his suggestion, attempted to stifle his arguments by placing his own mouth over Sherlock’s, repeatedly. This seemed to slow the detective down somewhat, so John forcibly manhandled him over to the bed, making sure to avoid all sunburned areas and providing a towel to protect the hapless mattress in question from any and all splatter of bodily fluids the ongoing manly struggle would produce.

 

After coercing Sherlock to lie face down on the towel (as his back was still paining him), John then proceeded to pound away at the heroic Sherlock, who accepted his punishment without _any_ aplomb whatsoever. While normally stoic in nature, Sherlock was out of his depth, subjected to the type of abuse normally reserved for asphalt or concrete, as delivered by a jackhammer. Over and over, John penetrated Sherlock’s personal space with deliberate malice. His cries for relief were muffled by a comforting pillow, but his protests could still be heard.

 

“Don’t! Stop! Don’t! Stop! Don’t…stop! Don’t…stop…don’t…stop…Don’t stop…don’tstop don’tstopdon’tstop…”

 

Even the neighbors, hearing his pitiful cries, hammered on the wall and demanded that John relent and spare the suffering detective.

 

“Hey!” a muffled cry was heard through the wall, “give it a rest, will ya?”

 

“Shut it, you!” the merciless John shouted back, redoubling his efforts. His poor, beleaguered victim could do nothing but submit to the heinous act, gasping and panting until, finally, he completely collapsed with a muffled howl of surrender and an expelling of certain bodily fluids. This spurred John on, his thrusting blows hitting Sherlock’s most sensitive areas again and again until, with a curse against his helpless and hapless captive, John emptied himself of all wrath and ire into the unresisting body of his victim.

 

Both predator and prey collapsed bonelessly, John carefully avoiding the burnt areas of Sherlock’s skin by supporting himself on his forearms. Breathing as though they had just chased a criminal across London, Sherlock turned his head and uttered one of his most underrated understatements _ever_.

 

“That…<pant pant>…was… _good_.”

 

John decided he couldn’t let this go unchallenged.

 

“That…was _bloody_ good, love.”

 

A voice from the other side of the wall chimed in, “So glad you two are happy now, so _shut the fuck up_!” followed by a feminine voice saying, “God! They’re so rude!” disapprovingly.

 

A slow smile stole over Sherlock’s lips as he felt John’s body stiffen in anger, but he reached back and slapped John’s arse to quiet him before saying, “Thank you! So glad you approved. By the way, is that the same girlfriend as a couple of nights before, the pretty brunette? _She_ was _far_ more receptive to our performance than _this_ one seems to be. She actually rated us a _ten_ when I saw her in the hallway afterwards.”

 

There was a shriek, then the sound of something being struck, followed by “Ow! Stop that!”

 

“Who was she, Jake? You told me I was the only one!”

 

“Oh, you’re not alone, Miss,” Sherlock continued, adding fuel to the fire. “There were, at least, two others, not to mention the man’s wife, from whom he most _definitely_ is _not_ estranged, judging from his phone conversation with her earlier today. I don’t think I even _need_ to mention his twin daughters…”

 

“BASTARD! I HATE YOU!” she shrieked, raining blows upon the hapless Jake, if Sherlock was any judge of the dull thuds that followed.

 

“NO! NOT THAT!” Jake howled as something glass shattered against a piece of furniture. “THAT WAS MY SALESMANSHIP AWARD! YOU BITCH!” Then, “Put…put the knife away, babe. It’s you, it’s always been you…”

 

“LIAR!” came a shout, followed by the sound of ripping and tearing. “I’ll show you!”

 

This went on for a few more minutes, while John and Sherlock lay together, listening, overcome with silent laughter.

 

“You are a right cock, love,” John chortled, as the fight raged.

 

Sherlock grinned. “He deserved it. I _detest_ cheaters, and he simply _annoyed_ me.” He cast a glance at John and stated, “I think you should call Security now, John. God only knows what else she has in that purse of hers. This _is_ America, after all.”

 

“Right,” John snorfled as he dialed up the front desk and reported a row in the next room.

 

There was a sudden pounding on _their_ hotel room door, and it _wasn’t_ the type Sherlock had been enduring recently. “Open up, you bastards! Motherfuckers!”

 

“Oh, does there seem to be a problem?” Sherlock inquired, all innocence.

 

“Yeah, you limey prick! She threw me out and ripped up all my clothes! At least give me a towel to wear while I punch out your lights!” the muffled voice said.

 

“Better report that we are currently under attack, John,” Sherlock said, calmly.

 

John looked at him, affronted. “Why me?”

 

“Because _your_ limey accent is more accessible to the average American than _mine_ is,” Sherlock continued, smoothly. “ _I_ get accused of being a ‘poncy prick’ whenever _I_ call.”

 

“Just calling it like it is,” John murmured, as he dialed the front desk again.

 

Finally, there was a commotion outside the door, which included further shouting from their next-door neighbor that he was going to kill the limey bastard inside. After a scuffle, the sounds of someone being dragged away could be heard, along with a high-pitched female voice from the hallway saying, “That’s what you deserve, you limp-dicked bastard!” before stomping off down the hall.

 

A polite knock on the door prompted John to put on a robe and cover the still-slippery Sherlock with his _own_ robe before answering. A security guard asked if everyone was all right and reported on their course of action in regards to the errant guest. John filled in some minor details, leaving out Sherlock’s deliberate provocation, and the matter was settled. In fact, a few minutes later, an envelope with a voucher for a complimentary breakfast was slid under their door.

 

“Nice customer service,” John observed.

 

“Not so thrilled with the aftercare, though,” Sherlock sniffed.

 

“Oh! That! Yeah, let me just…” John dashed into the bathroom and returned with a warm, moist washcloth and a towel, which he diligently applied to Sherlock’s curvaceous bum. Sherlock removed the sullied towel from beneath himself.

 

“I think the mattress is grateful,” Sherlock murmured. “What do you think, John?”

 

Laughter splurted from John’s lips as he cleaned up his husband. “Yeah. Yeah, I think it is. That was a noble thing you did, Sherlock.”

 

“I am nothing if not a protector of the helpless,” Sherlock stated, proudly. John smacked him on his bare bum.

 

“I can’t even _feel_ that yet, John. Save it for _after_ the feeling has returned, would you?”

 

John lost it. Again. Then he crawled into bed next to his husband and apologized for his unjustified assault on Sherlock’s bum with kisses and cuddles until they both fell asleep.

 

>>>***<<<

 

Early next morning, Sherlock’s mobile rang. Resisting the urge to hurl it across the room, Sherlock answered it with his usual morning acumen.

 

“This..mmm…Shherlock, whaddyawant? Iz early…”

 

“Yeah, I can tell. Lestrade here. Listen, have you been getting involved in anything I should know about?”

 

“Mmmm, no. Go ‘way, Graham.”

 

“It’s _Greg_ , as you know perfectly well, Sherlock! I just got a call from an Agent Doyle…”

 

“He’z a prat.”

 

“Yeah, everyone is, according to you, but what’s this I hear about two of you being attacked _twice_ in one day? What have you been up to?”

 

“About 7 inches. Otherwise, iz nothin’…”

 

“GOD DAMMIT, IT’S NOT ‘NOTHING’, SHERLOCK!”

 

John raised his head from the pillow and mumbled, “Jeez, Inspector, no need to shout!”

 

“Well, your ass of a boyfriend…”

 

“Husband. Ass of a husband.”

 

“Yeah, right, I was there for _that_ little slice of heaven. Did you two _really_ have to apprehend a thief in the middle of the ceremony?”

 

“He was stealing stuff from the _church_ , Inspector. Could hardly _ignore_ it, could we?” John stated, in all righteousness.

 

A growling could be heard over the mobile. “Well, yeah, I’ll give you _that_. But you’ve been _shot_ at…”

 

“Missed. Lousy shot, not a serious attempt,” Sherlock mumbled.

 

“Then someone wires your hotel door with explosives…”

 

“Half-assed job; again, not a serious attempt.”

 

A huge sigh was audible across the ocean. “Okay, fine, whatever. Just, keep me informed, okay? I _hate_ getting second-hand news like this.”

 

Without even opening his eyes, Sherlock mumbled, “Yep, no problem, g’day, L’strade” before thumbing off his phone.

 

John snuggled into his new husband and Sherlock smiled. “So, what are we going to do today?” John asked softly.

 

Sherlock shrugged. “Go back to sleep, for one thing. Then we’ll make decisions.”

 

John nodded. “Good plan.”

 

Within minutes, the two were asleep again.


	3. It's a Small World...

“I think I would have preferred to go out for breakfast, John. The service here is incredibly slow,” Sherlock observed, acidly, as he perused his menu.

 

John nodded non-commitally. “Well, it didn’t help that you’ve already growled at the server once…”

 

“He spilled ice water on me, John. I wasn’t prepared for that. Besides, now I look like I’ve had an accident in the loo. I have to sit here until it dries.”

 

John shrugged. “We’re not going anywhere anytime soon anyway, Sherlock. This is an upscale restaurant. The wait is proportionate to the reputation. Besides, it’s free, so who cares?”

 

Sherlock grumbled to himself and rededicated his attention to the menu. After a few minutes, the server approached with a pot of hot coffee and a cup of tea for Sherlock. “Ta,” John said, then, after the server gave him a quizzical look, amended it to, “Thank you.” The server smiled and nodded before leaving.

 

“Don’t even understand the language anymore,” Sherlock groused. “What has this country come to?”

 

John ducked his head to hide his indulgent smile. Waking up early was never Sherlock’s strong suit.

 

“Why have we been seated so far from everyone else?” Sherlock continued. “And why are we the only table with flowers?”

 

John looked up, catching a sudden tone to his husband’s voice. He knew it; Sherlock had noticed something out-of-the-norm. “Maybe they heard we were just married…”

 

“Unlikely. That young couple over there has been all over each other since we’ve been here, _obviously_ just married, but they have no flowers at _their_ table.” He peered closely at the colorful flowers in their chipped vase. “Ah! We have a spider.”

 

“Really? Where?” John asked, as he reached out for the vase.

 

“No! John, don’t touch it. It’s a brown recluse, quite poisonous, and indigenous to Florida. Hmm, no coincidence here.”

 

John goggled at him. “ _Another_ attempt? Sherlock, this is getting serious!”

 

“No, this is getting tedious. None of these attempts have succeeded in injuring either one of us. Either our would-be assassin is a complete and utter moron, or we’re being warned away from something.” He gestured to the server. “Please take this vase _carefully_ into another room and notify Security. Do not touch the spider—it’s poisonous. Oh, and a three-egg omelet with cheese and tomato juice, please.”

 

The server stared at Sherlock in disbelief.

 

“And the Grand Slam breakfast for me, with orange juice,” John added.

 

The server carefully picked up the vase and carried it gingerly into a serving area, still wearing the same look of fright and disbelief as before.

 

Minutes later, Security showed up and the server directed them into the service area. A few minutes after that, Agent Doyle calmly walked up to their table, spun a chair around backwards, and sat down, resting his arms on the back of the chair.

 

“Really, boys, this is getting to be ridiculous. Who has it out for you?”

 

“Not a clue, Agent Doyle. My husband and I are on our Sex Holiday and we agreed to come here because I remembered it rather fondly from the last time. Other than yourself, I know no one here,” Sherlock responded, with remarkable restraint.

 

“You sure of that?” the agent reiterated. “Think hard.”

 

Sherlock turned his long face toward Agent Doyle and, with a look that could drip ice water, said, “I _always_ think hard, Agent Doyle. It’s what sets me aside from the majority of law enforcement.”

 

Agent Doyle, to his credit, let that slide. “Okay, you got your potshot in. Now, let me lay this out for you. I’m here in regards to the resurgence of a drug ring that was centered here years ago, led by a Myron Hudson…”

 

John’s head snapped around at the mention. “Myron Hudson? Mrs. Hudson’s husband? The one you…”

 

“Helped get convicted of murder? Yes, I remember. However, he’s long gone, so how does this all fit in together?” Sherlock responded.

 

Agent Doyle shifted in his chair. “Well, it seems that someone has reconstructed the ring that fell apart after his imprisonment. Took a few years, but now they are rivalling any of the Mexican Cartels for volume of drugs transported and dispersed. A lot of them are going to the British Isles, Ireland, and Wales, so our kingpins might be natives. Mr. Holmes…?”

 

Sherlock had a _look_ that he assumed when he was putting facts together and extrapolating data. He steepled his fingertips in front of his chin and stared off into nothingness. John held up his hand to forestall Agent Doyle from interrupting Sherlock’s reverie.

 

Breakfast arrived, but Sherlock still didn’t move. John dug in; he was famished. Agent Doyle swiped a piece of well-cooked bacon from John’s plate and chewed it thoughtfully. Finally, the smell of hot food percolated into Sherlock’s sensibilities and awoke him to the present. “Ah, food! Well, since we are not yet on a case, I supposed eating something is in order.” He dug into his food with a gusto that surprised his husband.

 

“I guess we should get more…exercise while we’re here, since it seems to do your appetite a world of good,” John noted.

 

“You mean, ‘have more sex’, of course,” Sherlock replied through a mouthful of omelet. “Yes, I wholeheartedly agree.”

 

Agent Doyle chortled. “He’s a handful, isn’t he?” he inquired of John, who nodded wordlessly as he demolished his own plate.

 

“You don’t know the half of it,” he finally responded, after a hasty gulp. “But, it’s ‘for better or for worse’, and we’ve seen ‘em both.”

 

“Mmph,” the agent responded, looking unconvinced.

 

“You know, these attempts on our lives are almost like a frat boy prank,” John noted, pointing his fork at Sherlock.

 

Sherlock nodded, then froze in mid-motion. His eyes narrowed. “John, you are fucking brilliant!”

 

John nodded nonchalantly. “As often as I can,” he noted, glibly. Agent Doyle snorted, trying to suppress laughter. “But what did I say…”

 

But Sherlock had just pulled out a pen and was furiously writing something down on a corner of his placemat. He handed it to the Agent. “Here. Check this out. I think it might yield promising results.”

 

The Agent read the scrawl and looked up, confused. “But…”

 

“No ‘but’ about it, Agent Doyle. Everything you’ve told me is leading me in this direction.”

 

“But the DNA tests…”

 

“DNA was in its infancy back then. Mistakes could have been made, samples compromised, or results faked. Check out the coroner, too. Whoever had any contact with these samples. I’ll wager that someone, or something, _somewhere_ , is tainted. It took _this long_ for them to rebuild, which tells you about the caliber of criminal we’re dealing with. Also, contact DI Lestrade and get him working for you on his side. He’s a good man, but don’t tell him I said that. I don’t want him getting a swelled head; he’d be _impossible_ to work with, after that.”

 

“Sort of like someone we know,” John quipped again.

 

Sherlock’s expression screamed “Shut it, John.”  Agent Doyle bit back a laugh. Yep, these two were _definitely_ married.

 

“So, while I’m back to chasing leads, what are _you two_ going to be doing?” Agent Doyle asked, pocketing the note.

 

Sherlock straightened up in his chair and, as John grinned, said, with great gravity, “ _We_ are going to Disney World.”

 

With the flattest possible expression in the world, Agent Doyle said, “Are you _serious_?”

 

“Indeed, I am,” Sherlock nodded, popping a bit of toast into his mouth.

 

“But someone is out there, trying to kill you!” Doyle protested.

 

Sherlock raised a sardonic eyebrow and stated, “Then it’s best to give them a moving target, don’t you think?”

 

Doyle looked at Sherlock, then at John, who was still grinning at him, then back at Sherlock with growing disbelief. “I think the _two_ of you are out of your minds,” he finally said. He removed a card from his pocket and handed it to John. “Here, this has my cell number on it. Use it if something comes up.” He stared at john as he said, “I’m giving it to _you_ because you seem to be the more level-headed one.” He jerked his head at Sherlock and said, “I get the feeling this one would chuck it into a fountain somewhere.”

 

Sherlock didn’t even pretend to be affronted. In fact, there was a wisp of a smile playing around his full lips. “Thank you for your concern, Agent Doyle, but what could _possibly_ happen at ‘the World’s Happiest Place?’” he said, unironically.

 

Doyle just shook his head as he got up from the table. “Frankly, Mr. Holmes, if it were anyone else asking that question, my answer would be far different…” he said as he nodded and walked out of the restaurant.

 

John watched him leave, then turned back to Sherlock with a grin. “He must think I’ve lost the plot, marrying you,” he chuckled. “Little does he know…”

 

Sherlock grinned over his finger-laced hands. “What? That you’re every bit as daft as I am?”

 

John laughed. “Well, I _did_ invade Afghanistan…”

 

Sherlock joined him in laughter.”

 

>>>***<<<

 

“Really, John? _Really_?” Sherlock asked, his long face exaggerated by shock and disgust.

 

“Yeah. C’mon, Sherlock, it’s not _that_ bad, and considering all the lemon juice that’s been pouring out of your mouth since we got here…” John wheedled.

 

“THAT…was done in self-defense. I swear to God, John, I have _never_ seen so much sugar masquerading as substance in my _life_ ,” Sherlock moaned, staring around him at the bright colors, cheerful music, and screaming children as though he had entered the Ninth Ring of Hell.

 

John put on his long-suffering face and crossed his arms as he looked up at his husband. “Look, I’ve always wanted to come here, just to see what it was like…”

 

“Now you know. Let’s go.”

 

“NO, Sherlock, let’s not. Look, we’ll take in some of the attractions, maybe ride some rides…it’ll be fun!”

 

Sherlock sighed for so long, John was afraid that CPR would have to be the next step. “Fine, we’ll stay a while. It will be a good place to observe people, I suppose.” He brightened. “Perhaps some fed-up parent will murder their little darling…”

 

“SHERLOCK!”

 

His husband sulked. “I’m _not_ having any fun. It’s entirely _too_ hot and _too_ sunny for my taste, and this _isn’t_ my favorite type of clothing.”

 

John smiled up at him. “I think you look _great_. The white shirt and pants are _very_ flattering, and they are also very cool in this heat.”

 

Sherlock picked at the gauzy top he was wearing. “Well, this _is_ better than one of those God-awful ‘Hawaiian shirts’ they were trying to foist off on me. I don’t _do_ colors like that, John,” he groused.

 

“And those pants make your bum look great,” John added with an eyebrow waggle.

 

Sherlock preened a little, which was exactly what John had been after. Anything to make himself look better for John…

 

“Let’s go in here, Sherlock. It’s darker and cooler than it is out here,” John coaxed.

 

Sherlock looked up at the sign. “It’s a Small World? Really, John? It’s a child’s ride!”

 

“And you’re the biggest child I know. Now, shut it and get in line.” John slipped his arm around the small of Sherlock’s back and propelled him forward until they were at the loading platform. John and Sherlock were the last ones on the boat, in the rearwardmost seat. The boat moved forward.

 

Once inside, it was considerably more temperate than the blazing heat outside. All the brightly-colored, dancing children made John smile, but Sherlock grumbled under his breath until John slipped a hand into his lap and began a subtle massage…

 

“Quiet, you. If you’re a very good boy, when we get back to the room. I will boff you senseless on every surface in it,” he whispered.

 

Sherlock gulped and whispered, “Agreed.” John withdrew his hand and patted the inside of his thigh. “Good lad.”

 

As he withdrew, John noticed a small boy in the seat in front of them staring back at them with wide eyes. He then turned around and declared, to his mother, that the short man in the back seat had touched the tall man in a ‘not-good place’, and wasn’t that supposed to be a bad thing? The mother turned around and gave them a dirty look before she said, “You should both be ashamed of yourselves! In front of a child…”

 

“Which is _precisely_ where your husband told you he was leaving you for his young secretary, so I wouldn’t be _too_ judgemental of others, if I were you,” Sherlock hissed. All the color drained from her face and she turned around front and told her little boy to pay attention to the ride and not to strangers.

 

John was shaking with suppressed laughter. “You’re a menace,” he giggled.

 

“I will _not_ be judged by the common herd,” Sherlock whispered, testily.

 

“How did you _know_?” John inquired softly.

 

Sherlock shrugged. “I _didn’t_ , but this is America. I had at least a 50/50 chance of being right.”

 

John slid down the seat laughing. The woman in front cast a poisonous look back at him and muttered something under her breath.

 

“Oi, missus, mind your own business next time,” John chortled, and her face turned red.

 

What happened next was a mystery to all involved. One second, John and Sherlock were seated in the back seat of the boat, with a goodly length between them and the next boat in line; the next, Sherlock found himself in the water, being held down by a pair of strong hands that were tightening around his throat. He couldn’t hear anything but the rush and pounding of blood in his ears as he struggled for release and breath.

 

It seemed to go on forever, this battle, but it couldn’t have been more than a couple of seconds before John was in the water, too, striking at Sherlock’s attacker and loosing his hands from around Sherlock’s slender throat. A set of small, strong hands grabbed Sherlock by the collar and dragged him to the surface, where he sucked in air like a drowning man, which, in fact, he was. He finally regained his feet with John’s assistance and waded toward an exit door, where they were met by a Security guard who had seen them on closed-circuit TV. They were immediately taken to Guest Services and questioned, after being offered towels and, ironically, something to drink. They were also Breathalyzed, which came up negative.

 

“Now, Mr. Holmes, if you could explain what happened…”

 

“We were being followed…” he started before John interrupted.

 

“When was _this_ , Sherlock?” he demanded, angrily. “You didn’t tell me that!”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes loudly. “No, I didn’t, John. I figured they wouldn’t be _stupid_ enough to attack us in a crowded park for all to see, but when you suggested going into a dark ride, well…” He shrugged. “I figured they might try something and we could get some more information…”

 

“THEY TRIED TO DROWN YOU, SHERLOCK!” John protested. The Security guard just looked nonplussed by the whole affair.

 

“Yes, well, there _is_ that, but I thought…”

 

“ _That’s your problem, you don’t **think** , you just go off half-cocked and don’t bother to keep your **husband** informed…”_

 

“ _Do_ calm down, _husband_ , I had _implicit_ faith in your ability to handle _anything_ that came our way…”

 

“My God, Sherlock…”

 

“EXCUSE ME,” the Security Guard cut in, politely but firmly, “We have everything on video. I am going to have to report this to management and they may want you to leave the park immediately…”

 

“Why?” John challenged, advancing upon the guard. “Surely it wasn’t _our_ fault that we were attacked by someone _you people_ couldn’t protect us from…”

 

“John, please,” Sherlock said, calmly, as he presented the guard with a card. “If you will call this gentleman and identify us, I’m sure he can put this all into perspective and our expulsion from the park will be unnecessary.”

 

John gave him a look and quietly asked, “Did you just pickpocket me?”

 

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose to meet his waterlogged fringe. “Of course. That’s what husbands are for.”

 

John’s mouth opened and closed like a fish before he said, “You know what? Nevermind. They can just throw us out of the park if they want…”

 

In the background they could hear the guard having a conversation with someone in a _very_ different tone from the way in which he had been talking with them. There was a lot of “oh” and “ah” and “I see” and “you’re fucking shitting me” before the guard returned to the room and handed the card back to Sherlock, who pocketed it. “Well, uh, sirs, uh, turns out the, uh, FBI agent’s story bears out your own. So, uh, I spoke with the management and they, uh, hope you enjoy the rest of your day with us here at Disney World and here is a week’s pass to all our rides and attractions, and please don’t sue us.”

 

Sherlock smiled as he accepted the passes. “Thank you, sir. Your company is not at fault for the actions of a ruffian who was directing ill intentions toward my husband and me. I’m sure we will have a very good time. Come, John,” he said as he turned and walked out of the security office with a confused and angry John in tow.

 

Once more or less alone, John exploded. “Why didn’t you tell me what was going on, Sherlock!? You made a vow…”

 

“That I would never lie to you. I didn’t,” he replied, smoothly.

 

“And that you would always keep me informed,” John continued, pointing his shaking index finger in Sherlock’s face.

 

Sherlock kissed it, flustering John further. “You’re right, _husband_. I _did_ withhold certain information, but I didn’t want to ruin your day. I _truly_ didn’t think they would be mad enough to make a move in such an open place! I apologize, John, and hope that you will forgive me.”

 

He spoke with such earnestness that John instantly relented. Just as he opened his mouth to say something, Sherlock’s phone went off. He thumbed it open. “Sherlock.”

 

He listened carefully, then thanked the speaker and thumbed the phone off. “Well, John, it seems that Disney Security is better at some things than Scotland Yard. They have captured the man who attacked me and are currently holding him for the FBI. Shall we join them, or let Agent Doyle do the heavy lifting on this one?”

 

John looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “Let’s let him handle the interrogation, then we can get the boiled-down version…if that’s okay with you, of course.”

 

Sherlock smiled down at his husband and said, “You know, I feel a bit more fondly about this place now. Let’s spend the rest of the day here, cap it off at the hotel room as you have promised, and then we can meet with Agent Doyle tomorrow. Agreed?”

 

John grinned. “Sounds acceptable on all levels. What’s next…the Matterhorn? Space Mountain?”

 

Sherlock smiled ruefully. “Anything _without_ water, if you don’t mind.”


	4. Sass and Vinegar

The evening ended in yet another lively discussion.

After taking a bath together (with warm water this time) and getting their limbs quite mixed up in each others, the two retired to the bedroom where, after several hours of activity, the following conversation could be heard outside the hotel door, if anyone cared to listen:

“Oh, for God’s sake, Sherlock, not again!”

“John, you promised…”

“I’m not 20 anymore, you know…”

You’re five years older than I am, that’s all. Stop whining.”

There was the sound of physical contact with a wall.

“JEEZUS! DON’T YOU HAVE A REFRACTORY PERIOD?”

“Same as any man, John.”

“Nope, nope, you must have an inflatable prosthesis in that thing. It’s not natural, Sherlock!”

“You promised.” Sulky tone.

“Yeah, but…”

“’On every horizontal surface in the room’, you said…”

“True, but…”

“I made a list…”

“FUCKING HELL, SHERLOCK!”

“We’ve only covered five…”

“Jesus!”

“There are sixteen more to go…”

Resigned sigh. “I’ve created a monster.”

“The mattress has been acting up again. I heard it sass you this morning. It might require more disciplining…”

“Which you will, of course, protest.”

“Heartily. As I said, it’s young but, nevertheless, such behavior should be…dealt with.”

“And you’re willing to put yourself in the line of fire…”

“Of course. It’s my solemn duty.”

Deep sigh. “Can I have a rest after that?”

A thoughtful pause. “Hmmm. Sixteen divided by mattress equals…”

“Get on the fucking bed, Mastermind.”

The sound of two bodies falling onto the bed, followed by “This mattress is going to owe you, big time.”

“Indeed. In fact, I have the perfect solution for it.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“Well, considering the fact I still can’t lie on my back just yet, but you can…”

“Ah, I think I see where you’re going with this…”

Silence, except for the sound of the bed squeaking in protest.

“Shut it, you. You owe me. Don’t make me reconsider my actions!”

Giggle. “You’re such an idiot!”

“Am I? I’m not the one on the bottom, now, am I?”

“No, no, you’re not. You’re…oh…ohhhhh god, that feels…great…uhhh…fantastic…yeah, yeah, like that…ahhhh…fuck, Sherlock…”

“Exactly.” Breathlessly.

Sound of rhythmic movement on the bed, accompanied by squeaking and moaning.

“Oh, shit, baby, yeah, keep going…keep…ahhhhh…it’s fucking amazing…”

Tightly. “No, I’m fucking amazing… you’re…ahhhh!…fucking brilliant…oh, god…”

“Smart…arse…god, you’re so tight! Oh, baby…faster…yeah, like that…yeah…oh, yeah, love, like that, like that…

“Ohhh, John…John…take me in hand…”

“Yeah, god, I love your cock…how’s this?”

“Yessss…like that…oh, John, I…I’m…getting close…”

“Yeah, me…too…Up on your knees, love, let me do the rest.”

Rhythmic smacking/thumping sounds with increased squeaking.

“Oh FUCK, BABY, FUCK…AHHHHHHHHH!”

“JOHN! OHHHHHHHHH!”

Finally, the sound of something falling on the bed, accompanied by heavy breathing and a few scattered obscenities.

Breathlessly, “That was…that was…”

Annoyed. “If you say ‘good’, I will have you committed!”

“Awesome. Incredible. Beyond words…”

Deep breath. “Better.”

“This mattress is a chronic complainer.”

“Yeah, but we did still give it a bit of a workout.”

“Not…not as bad as it could have been…”

Sounds of panting. 

“Uh, Sherlock, I think that chair over there…just flipped us the bird.”

“Cheeky bastard. It must be taken to task for such gross disrespect! Maybe later, after I can… walk… again.”

“Good idea. I take it you aren’t feeling as charitable toward the chair as the mattress?”

Giggling. “You’re such an arse…”  
>>>***<<<

Sherlock’s phone went off early. He answered it in typical fashion.

“Shherrlock here. Iz early. Somebody better be dead…”

“YOU ALMOST DROWNED AND YOU DIDN’T BOTHER TO TELL ME ANYTHING?”

“Oh, Lestrade. Good morning to you, too,” Sherlock mumbled.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE THE TWO OF YOU DOING OVER THERE? PISSING OFF EVERY CRIMINAL IN THE STATE?”

“If you’re gonna keep yelling at me, Greg, I’m gonna have to tell you to fuck off,” Sherlock slurred. “You’re gonna wake up John…”

“Too late,” a sleepy voice chimed in from behind him.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, I just got off the phone with…wait a minute, did you actually call me by my given name?”

“An oversight, I assure you. Won’t happen again.”

“Bastard. Anyway, Agent Doyle just called me to tell me about your little Disney World romp. Who’d you rile up this time?”

Sherlock levered himself up on his elbows. “No one. Someone has taken exception to my presence in Florida…someone who feels threatened and has been trying to scare me off. Not working, of course, but I do have some idea of who it might be.”

“Spill it.”

“Mmmm, not yet. You know I don’t deal in uncertainties.”

“The hell you don’t. Mr. Sherlock “I’m-going-off-half-cocked” Holmes over here.”

“Rude. I’m going back to bed and, later, John and I have to punish a sassy chair.”

“I’m not even going to pretend that that made sense.”

“Goodbye, Inspector.”

“SHERLOCK…”

The phone thumped as Sherlock lay it down heavily on the bedside table. John rolled over and opened one eye. “What did Lestrade want?”

“To lambaste us for not keeping him informed of our progress on this case.”

“I thought we weren’t on a case, Sherlock…”

Sherlock screwed up his face comically. “Well, it’s sort of a half-arsed case, to be honest. I haven’t really been giving it my full attention. Other things keep distracting me.”

“Like what?” Innocently.

“Mmmm…like this…” Sherlock said, before diving beneath the covers and securing his prey.

“Ah! Oh, yeah, that…ohhh, Sherlock, you’ve got…ahh…such a mouth on you….”

A humming assent could be heard from the bobbing head beneath the covers.

“Oh, fuck, love…mmmm…that’s great, just like…uhhh…just like that…oh, baby…” John’s hands sought out the mass of curls beneath the sheet and ran through them, tightening spasmodically, which elicited moans from his lover. Sherlock had very sensitive follicles. 

“Stop! Stop stop stop stop,” he said, suddenly, lifting Sherlock’s head off his private parts. Sherlock peeled the covers off himself and gave John a quizzically annoyed look. 

“John? What…I thought you liked…?”

“Yeah, yeah, I do, but, right now, I want to be face-to-face. Can you handle that? How’s your back?”

Sherlock considered. “Better. I think I could lie on it without repercussions…”

“Good, good. Lie down, then.” When Sherlock started to sulk, John added, “Please. I want to see your beautiful face…”

Sherlock’s expression softened. “Oh. Okay.” He shifted around and laid down with his head on his pillow.

“Comfy?”

A nod. “Although, I must disagree with your assessment…”

John frowned as he laid himself down atop his husband. “In what way?”

Sherlock opened his legs welcomingly and slid his arms around John’s waist, snagging one butt cheek with each hand. “About my so-called ‘beauty’. I am not beautiful, John. My face is far too odd to be considered beautiful by modern standards.”

John began to kiss his husband’s neck as he slid their cocks together between them. In between kisses and toothy nips on that exquisitely pale expanse of throat, he murmured, “You’re wrong, love. You’re… beautiful… gorgeous…sexy…breathtaking…amazing…” as he used mouth and hands to stimulate his lover’s body. Sherlock’s eyes were half-closed, his swollen lips parted, his hips rolling against his lover’s. John could feel both of their cocks growing longer and thicker, Sherlock’s easily catching up to John’s previously turgid member. Warm dampness eased the movement between them while increasing the growing sensations in both their groins. 

“Oh, John…God…you feel so…fantastic…ohhh…faster, love, please…” Sherlock’s voice was breathy and deep, the vibration of it through his chest and into John’s just enhanced John’s erection in every way imaginable. John changed his movement from rocking to thrusting, pressing his pubic bone down on Sherlock’s heaving cock. Sherlock moaned deeper, thrusting upward into John’s groin, desperate to increase contact and friction.

There came a point where logical thought was no longer possible. What replaced it was raw need, desire, a drive for fulfillment. Their bodies heaved together, Sherlock sometimes lifting both of them off the bed for a second or two in his passionate pursuit of stimulation, of completion. John bore down on him, using leverage to provide the maximum contact and movement of their cocks together. Words were forgotten; all that remained were mindless, guttural sounds of pleasure beyond reckoning as they came together, each one spewing forth their seed onto the other as their hands clutched at and sank into their partner’s skin. John swore and Sherlock moaned as their bodies spasmed and shook together, gradually fading away as the gripping pleasure abated. until they lay motionless in post-coital bliss. John melted atop Sherlock, whose arms and legs fell to the mattress limply.

After several minutes, John lifted his head and said, breathlessly, “The mattress said, ‘thank you’.”

Sherlock convulsed in laughter, despite John’s weight on top of him.


	5. Echoes of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock offers himself up as prey is a very dangerous game while on his Sex Holiday with John...

“Agent Doyle. Good of you to join us,” Sherlock said.

 

“Mr. Holmes. Doctor Watson,” Doyle said, nodding to both as he sat down at the outdoor café where John and Sherlock had decided to eat lunch. They had chosen it at random, to avoid any possibility that someone would be setting them up for another assassination attempt. “I have some interesting news for you.”

 

Sherlock smiled expectantly. “I’m not in the least surprised. Please, _do_ share your findings with us.”  


The Agent took out a pad and read from it. “Well, it seems that our attempted murderer at Disney World is a petty thug, known to local law enforcement, who has never amounted to much in the criminal world up ‘til now. He was given a job to take out a “tall, thin asshole with a mop of dark hair, traveling with a short, graying guy who won’t give you much trouble.”

 

John snorted his coffee through his nose. Sherlock grinned.

 

“He thought this would be easy, otherwise he wouldn’t have taken the job. Little did he know…” Doyle chuckled to himself as John cleaned off his shirt.

 

“I don’t think I appreciate that description,” John griped. “Though, I must say, they had Sherlock described to a T.”

 

“Prat,” Sherlock muttered. John grinned.

 

“So, who is he working for?” Sherlock inquired, as he picked a French fry off John’s plate.

 

“You’ve got your own,” John hissed at him. Sherlock shrugged and observed, “Yours always seem to taste better.” Agent Doyle mouthed “ _married_ ” as he looked around at the passing crowd, before replying,

“Seems he’s working for a couple of brothers, late-20’s, early-30’s, who just recently put together a drug syndicate based on one that had existed here before and had been run by their father.”

 

“So, a drug _dynasty_ rather than an empire,” Sherlock purred. “And might I guess at the identities of our druglord prodigies?”

 

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t,” Doyle replied, calmly.

 

Sherlock took a long sip of his iced tea (“Cold tea? These Americans can make a profanity out of anything!” he’d said, before ordering one) and stated, “Hudson. Brian and Harry. Sons of Myron and Martha Hudson, last seen in the Everglades over ten years ago, where they were, supposedly, fed to the alligators.”

 

Agent Doyle nodded, impressed but trying not to show it. “Absolutely right, Mr. Holmes. What I don’t understand is, how you knew? You had _no_ reason to suspect _them_.”

 

Delicately daubing his lips, Sherlock replied, “I think outside the box, Agent Doyle. You may consider  me to be an ‘odd duck’, but it _does_ have its ‘up’ side. I can collect and synthesize information in ways that other can’t. Taking the information you’ve given me before, and reconsidering it in light of the case from ten years ago, it became obvious that we had been deceived by some very clever hooligans.”

 

“But, why would you think that the two would be related?”

 

“Obviously, someone was trying to kill Sherlock, or, at least, scare him away, because of something he _knew_ , or that they _thought_ he knew. Since he’d only ever been here that one other time, the odds were in favor of the two situations being connected in some way,” John chimed in, before taking another bite of his fish sandwich.

 

Sherlock and Agent Doyle stared at him mutely. John looked up from his sandwich and said, “What?”

 

Sherlock turned his face to Agent Doyle and stated, simply, “My husband is amazing sometimes.”

 

“And mine is brilliant,” John said, through a mouthful of fish, and the two dissolved into laughter.

 

Agent Doyle waited until they had recovered themselves, then said, “I _also_ looked into the coroner’s reports. Seems the coroner at that time was a man of, shall we say, _intriguing_ habits? Made a lot more money than his salary could account for and was later found to have faked death certificates and lab results for payment. He lost his license to practice, became an alcoholic mess, and ended up on his own slab a few years later, dead of undetermined, though suspicious, causes. He had been about to go to the police about some matter that had happened a few years before; claimed they hadn’t held up their end of the bargain, so he was going to turn the tables on them. Sounds like he had been on someone’s payroll and they stopped bankrolling his lifestyle after he was no longer useful to them.”

 

“I recall Myron Hudson. He was my landlady’s husband. Nasty brute. I sent him to jail once, in London, and he returned the favor by sending some of his underlings after me. Mrs. Hudson saved my life that day. I swore I would protect her from him at all costs, so I followed him, and his sons, here, where we found him holed up in some sleazy hotel, but his sons were nowhere to be found. Later, body parts began to turn up in the Everglades. It was believed that they belonged to the Hudson boys, but, now, it seems, the results of the tests had probably been manipulated to give us a false impression.”

 

John raised an eyebrow. “You never told me _any_ of this.”

 

“If you recall, John, I _did_ mention it to you the first time you came to the flat and met Mrs. Hudson. I saw no reason to expand upon it at the time,” Sherlock replied, blandly. He scarfed another French fry.

 

“Shoo! Eat your own!” John said, brushing Sherlock’s fingers away from his plate.

 

“Spoilsport.”

 

Agent Doyle rolled his eyes wordlessly.

 

“So, _if_ you’re done making silent commentary on my husband’s and my eating habits, Agent Doyle, how may we assist you?” Sherlock asked, grabbing a pickle from his husband’s plate and exaggeratedly popping it in his mouth. John growled.

 

 “We need to lure these two out into the open. Any ideas?” the Agent plowed on.

 

“Hmmm, considering the caliber of killer our ‘kingpins’ are using, and I _do_ use that term lightly, I would think that, if we panic them enough, they may _try_ to take matters into their own hands. These are _hardly_ highly-experienced druglords; they’re uni fratboys who are trying to take a shortcut to wealth. Considering the fact that the two of them were only a semester away from flunking out of uni, I daresay we’re not dealing with any potential Moriartys here.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Nevermind, Agent Doyle. If you never ran into him, all the better for you. Is there some way that you could leak word to ‘the boys’ that I have sussed out their identities and have proof of their illegal dealings? _That_ would certainly flush them out of their hidey hole…”

 

“And turn _you_ into prime bait material? Nothing doing, Mr. Holmes. They’ve already tried to kill you _several_ times…”

 

“And _this_ time, they will try to do it _themselves_ because they _dare_ not miss. This is your _best chance_ to catch them.”

 

“Touch that chip and you’ll be missing a finger,” John warned. Sherlock snatched it away anyhow.

 

Agent Doyle sighed. “If you’re _that_ determined to put your _own_ neck on the line…”

 

“I am,” Sherlock said, with a mouthful of potato.

 

“Then, at least, let us put a protective detail around you.”

 

An eyebrow arched. “I would expect no less of you, Agent Doyle.”

 

“Now eat your _own_ bloody lunch,” John snapped. Sherlock was all offended innocence.

 

As he rose from the table to leave, Agent Doyle muttered, under his breath, “ _Jesus_. These two will be the death of me yet.”

 

>>>***<<<

 

“So, are we going to walk up and down the boardwalk all day?” John asked, peevishly. “It’s bloody _hot_ out here.”

 

“It’s _Florida_ , John. The tropics. It’s farther south than the French Riviera. What were you _expecting_?”

 

“To be able to sit somewhere in the shade and have a pint, like any respectable stakeout.”

 

“Too many people around. We have to lure ‘the boys’ out into the open. Wouldn’t do to have any innocent casualties like that young woman at the pool, would it?” Sherlock’s head swiveled around, surveying the surrounding dunes and marsh grass.

 

“No, I suppose not,” John agreed, reluctantly. “Glad she’s doing okay.”

 

“Your doing, John. Everyone else lost their heads, except you. Without your expertise, she might have bled to death before the emergency personnel reached her.” There was unmistakable pride in Sherlock’s voice that made John blush just a little.

 

“You know, I think I need the loo,” John remarked, out of nowhere. He looked around but there were no nearby outbuildings in sight. “I’ll just nip down to the dunes here and take a piss.” He pointed accusingly at his husband. “You don’t move from this spot, understand?”

 

Sherlock nodded and clasped his hands, childlike, behind his back. “Completely.”

 

John nodded in emphasis and took a set of wooden stairs down to the beach. Once he was out of sight, a car careened up next to Sherlock and a man jumped out and grabbed him, jamming a pistol in his side. “No words, hear? Get in the car!” he growled as he forced Sherlock into the back seat and jumped in behind him.

 

“Sherlock? SHERLOCK?” John yelled as the car peeled away. He ran up to the boardwalk in time to see the car take a sharp turn down a nearby street and floor it.

 

Inside the car, Sherlock silently studied the two men who had just kidnapped him. One was driving erratically while the other held a gun to his head. “Don’t try anything funny,” the man next to him said, threateningly.

 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock remarked, smoothly. “I’m no comedian”

 

“Smart ass,” the driver said. “We got ourselves a live one, Bry.”

 

“Shut it, you!” Sherlock’s neighbor said.

 

“Aw, don’t worry about it. He’s not long for this world, anyhow,” the driver laughed. “Thought you were going to turn us over to the coppers, eh? Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Big Name Detective back home. You’re not much _now_ , are you?”

 

“On the contrary,” Sherlock retorted, saltily, “I’m _still_ well able to take down a couple of thugs like _you_. Thank God your mother thinks you’re dead; this would _kill_ her otherwise.”

 

The man next to him jammed the gun into Sherlock’s side. “ _Don’t you go talking about my mum, you hear_? We send her money _every month_ , direct to her account, so she’s taken care of. What do _you_ do for her, eh?”

 

“I treat her better than her own sons do, _that’s_ what,” Sherlock shot back. “Mrs. Hudson is the finest woman I’ve ever known and I’ve looked after her, even protected her from her beast of a husband.” He crossed his arms pointedly.

 

The driver laughed. “Dad wasn’t anything to write home about. Glad you got rid of him for us; he was getting sloppy in his old age, the lousy drunkard.”

 

“And whom did _you_ have to ‘get rid of’ in order to disappear?” Sherlock asked. “Some twat who asked too many questions? An innocent or two?”

 

“Just a couple of guys who wanted in on the game,” the driver said. “They were easy to dispose of in the swamp. Gators loved them.” He laughed. “They’re going to love you, too, Mr. Big Detective.”

 

Sherlock smiled enigmatically. His seatmate didn’t like it for some reason and struck him in the face with the pistol butt at short quarters. “I don’t like you,” he said, with an unpleasant growl. “I don’t like your _face_ , I don’t like your _friend_ , and I don’t like _anyone_ who talks about my mum. I may shoot you in the face before we let the gators have you, and then we’ll come back after your buddy…”

 

That was it. Sherlock, face bloodied from a cut on the cheek, turned on the man with the gun and wrestled with him for it. A shot went off, straight up into the roof of the car, as the driver veered from side to side, trying to throw Sherlock off of his brother, but Sherlock held fast, directing the gun toward the driver so that, the next time it went off, it shattered the windshield and caused the driver to jam on the breaks with a screaming curse.

 

“Fucking bastard! Tried to shoot…Get him, Bry!” The driver yelled, trying to climb over the front seat to join in the fight. Sherlock fought like a tiger, even biting the man’s wrist to get him to relinquish the gun. Brian screamed in pain as his brother grabbed a handful of Sherlock’s luxurious hair and pulled…

 

“Police! Hands in the air!” came a voice from outside the car.

 

Everyone froze. Sherlock extracted his hair from the one man’s fist and picked up the discarded gun from where it had fallen post-bite. He slid to the far side of the seat and held up the gun, two-fingered, by its handle. A police officer opened the door behind him and Sherlock tumbled out backwards, tossing the gun as he fell. It was retrieved and the officer started to cuff Sherlock when a familiar voice called out from a car that had just arrived at the scene.

 

“He’s the victim! Don’t cuff him!” John yelled out, followed by Agent Doyle, who emerged from the same car as John. He sprinted to Sherlock’s side, cradling the fallen detective and examining his facial wound. “Sherlock, are you all right, love? How many fingers do you see?” he asked, holding up two fingers.

 

“Two, but three are usually required, considering…”

 

“Shhhh!” John hissed, coloring slightly. “Not here, not _now_ , Sherlock. Although, _ta_ …” He kissed Sherlock’s temple as he held him close.

 

Agent Doyle squatted down beside them. “Mr. Holmes, you are a fucking maniac,” he said, simply and with great feeling.

 

Sherlock nodded and winced. “So I’ve been told,” he replied, wiping the blood from his face. “But it was the only way to draw them out. They _had_ to believe they had the upper hand. I have…” he reached into his shirt pocket, “a recording of their conversation when they believed I was destined for a lunch date in the Everglades. This should help you to put them away.” He handed the tiny recorder to the agent. “There are references on there to the boys’ mother. I would appreciate it if you could keep her in the dark as much as possible. She shouldn’t have to suffer from her sons’ misdeeds. She’s a good woman,” he said, his voice betraying the warmth he felt toward his landlady.

 

Agent Doyle nodded. “Of course, Mr. Holmes,” he said, softly. “I understand. We’ll keep her out of this, as long as she’s not involved in any criminal action…”

 

“They sent her money, anonymously, every month. She never mentioned it to _me_ , so I have no official knowledge of it…”

 

The Agent chuckled. “You certainly do play fast and loose with the rules, don’t you, Mr. Holmes?”

 

Sherlock smiled. “The name is Sherlock, Agent Doyle. And this is John.”

 

John nodded, still cradling his husband as the paramedics hustled up to them.

 

Agent Doyle smiled. “And I’m still Agent Doyle, but it’s been an honor working with you, Mr… Sherlock.”

 

“Likewise, Agent Doyle,” Sherlock replied, with a nod.

 

The paramedics took over and found themselves with a handful of cranky Sherlock, who claimed his husband was a doctor and was, therefore, _far_ more proficient in medicine than _they_ were. Agent Doyle finally intervened and ordered them to place Sherlock on a stretcher and to take him to the nearest hospital for evaluation, stating he was a state’s witness and, therefore, of great value to the case. Sherlock glowered at the agent, who smiled and waggled his fingers in farewell as the paramedics carted Sherlock away. John looked over his shoulder as he mounted the ambulance step and gave Agent Doyle a grin and a thumbs-up as he disappeared inside.

 

The young agent who had accompanied Agent Doyle on the first visit walked up beside him and stated, “ _That_ …was a weird one, sir.”

 

Doyle nodded. “Let that be a lesson to you, son. Sometimes the strangest folk can be the most brilliant… _and_ the most useful. He may be unorthodox, but he accelerated our case _tremendously_. Without Sherlock and his husband, the Hudson boys would still be on the loose, instead of heading into the hoosegow.” He smiled and walked over to where Sherlock’s kidnappers stood in the hot Florida sun, handcuffed and complaining. “I hope you boys have your lawyers all lined up.”

 

“Whatever he said, it’s a lie. We were just…”

 

Agent Doyle held up the recorder. “You were just going to drop him off for an alligator buffet, that’s all. Just your style.”

 

The two men blanched. Then, the driver said, “I never said _anything_. Brian was the one threatening him!”

 

Brian turned to his brother and said, “You bloody twat! Keep your fucking mouth shut!”

 

The two were still arguing as they were dragged into separate black-and-whites and driven away. Agent Doyle tossed the recorder into the air before pocketing it. All around, it had turned out to be a pretty good day.


	6. Reflections on a Summer's Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our favorite Sex Holiday couple must deal with the aftermath of their risky venture of the day before.

John Watson couldn’t sleep.

 

He watched as the moonlight streamed across the bed from the open sliding doors, letting a warm breeze blow the gauzy curtains into the room like a belly dancer’s veil. He smiled at the thought before returning his eyes to the recumbent figure on the bed. The light played over the tall figure, emphasizing the slenderness of its frame, where it lay sprawled beneath the white linen sheets that were comfortably rumpled about its limbs. The figure was so quiet, it filled John with a sense of unease, to the point where he leaned in close to make sure the figure was actually _breathing_. He blew oh-so-gently on the face and was rewarded with a flicker of an eyelid, evidence of life. He smiled at himself; he should know better by now. Sherlock, once asleep, would be dead to the world until late into the morning.

 

The strangeness of it all was that it was usually _John_ who was out cold by this hour, a long-standing habit from his time in the military. _Sherlock_ was the night-owl, not John, but the doctor at the ER had given Sherlock some pain medicine to help with the aches from a mild concussion he had been dealt by a gun butt to the face, one that had been wielded by a druglord with evil intentions. Not for the first time that night, John’s brain had returned to its cyclic course, reviewing all the ‘what ifs’ of the past day. _What if_ they had just shot and dumped him? _What if_ Agent Doyle hadn’t been on the alert and had missed Sherlock’s kidnapping? _What if_ , _what if_ , _what if_ …

 

“They’ll kill you, you know,” a familiar, if especially soft and slurry, baritone said from the bed.

 

John started slightly before realizing who had spoken. Then, he looked closely to see a set of shadowed silver eyes staring at him from the pillow.

 

“How long have you been awake?” John demanded.

 

“How long since you’ve been _asleep_?” Sherlock retorted, gently.

 

John sighed. “A while. I…just… _couldn’t_ …what do you mean, they’ll kill me?”

 

Sherlock quirked a smile. “The dreaded ‘what ifs’. They’ll eat you _alive_ , if you let them.” He stretched to his full length before rolling onto his stomach and folding his arms under the pillow, his face still turned toward his husband. “Best to let them move into the past and deal with ‘right now’, and ‘right now’, I’m alive and in love with the finest man I’ve ever known.”

 

John melted inside. People like Agent Doyle only ever saw the brilliant but difficult Consulting Detective, but it was John’s privilege to know the man _underneath_ the façade. He smiled back at his husband and said, “you _still_ have the most beautiful arse I’ve ever seen.”

 

Sherlock turned his face into the pillow and laughed. When he turned back, he said, “You say the sweetest, and most _inappropriate_ , things sometimes, John.”

 

“Taking a page from my husband’s manual,” John chuckled. His face was soft as he said, “Sometimes… I’m afraid to say what I’m really feeling, like if I can keep it at bay, it won’t hurt so much when…”

 

“I’m not going _anywhere_ , John,” Sherlock said, raising himself up on his elbows. “When I take a chance, it is a _calculated_ one. We discussed our strategy with Agent Doyle _before_ setting up our little charade. He was nearby with his fellow agents. All escape routes were covered. You _knew_ there was a strong possibility that they wouldn’t try to take _both_ of us but would leap at the chance to capture _me_ if I was alone.”

 

“Yeah, but watching them take you _at gunpoint_ , drag you into the car and speed away…God, Sherlock, my stomach dropped. I didn’t even have my gun…”

 

“No, but Agent Doyle had one and it required a _lot_ less explanation than _yours_ would have.”

 

“They could have killed you in the car and dumped you…”

 

“Unlikely. Uni boys, remember; they love to show how clever they are…”

 

“Sounds like someone I know…”

 

“I’ve never denied it, John. I _figured_ they would want to show me how clever they were. It was _my_ job to keep them talking, to tell me _everything_.”  He dropped his head to the pillow. “But I messed up. I let my own feelings get in the way…”

 

John frowned. “When the hell was _that_? You weren’t in the car long enough to…”

 

Sherlock turned his troubled face toward John and said, “One of them said that, after they were done with _me_ , they were coming back…for _you_. I snapped. I couldn’t allow…” He shook his head and buried his face in the pillow in disgrace.

 

Quietly, John rose from his chair and padded over to the bed. He sat beside Sherlock, who looked up at him with one of the saddest expressions John had ever seen. “I almost failed you, John,” Sherlock whispered, his voice tight with self-loathing. “I might have screwed up the investigation by reacting the way I did, because I couldn’t…”

 

“Shut it, you,” John replied, his voice soft and loving. He leaned down to kiss his husband’s shock of curly hair before Sherlock repositioned himself on his side, head supported by one arm. “You have never, _ever_ , failed me. You’ve almost gotten yourself _killed_ protecting me, you’ve sacrificed your own happiness so that I could have what I _thought_ I wanted, and you’ve been there for me _even when_ I’ve pushed you away in anger and frustration.”

 

A long-fingered hand reached up to brush the silver-blond hair away from John’s face tenderly. “I love you, John. I have never loved _anyone_ the way I love you. I’m sorry we got involved in this case when we should have been on our…honeymoon. I really only wanted to be with _you_.”

 

“Yeah, but having a case while being on our honeymoon is so… _us_ , don’t you think?” John giggled.

 

Sherlock nodded and smiled. “Very much so.”

 

“So…how’s your back?”

 

Sherlock experimentally rolled onto his back and stated, with relief, “Much better, thank you. Why, do you want to..?”

 

John crawled on top of his new husband and stated, “Believe it or not, no. What I _want_ to do right now is just hold you,” he kissed Sherlock’s lips, “and kiss you” then his nose “and tell you” then his forehead “how empty my life would be” then his uninjured cheek “without you in it” and back to his lips again, taking full possession of them this time. Sherlock’s arms slid around John’s body, holding him as close as humanly possible. Their legs intertwined as they kissed and nuzzled each other, the sheet providing a layer of chastity that neither one seemed to mind.

 

“Do you know,” John asked, between kisses, “how crazy it drove me…when you kissed Janine? When you proposed to her?”

 

“When I kissed Janine,” Sherlock responded, between kisses. “I imagined…I was kissing _you_. The same… when I proposed. I wanted it… to be you… _so_ , so badly…”

 

This led into another round of particularly heated kisses, accompanied by the kind of unconscious rubbing and squirming that escalated tensions rapidly. At some point, the sheet was nearly ripped asunder as it was pulled out from between their heaving bodies as the desire for increased friction and contact overcame their former intentions.

 

“I always thought,” John panted, “That you loved Irene…”

 

“Oh, _God_ , no,” Sherlock moaned. “She was…clever…but…not…oh, God…my area, John. _You_ …” he murmured into John’s mouth, “are my area…oh, John, fuck…me…”

 

Reaching blindly for the lube, John set about preparing his lover. As Sherlock had stated earlier, it did, indeed, require three fingers, and a lot of lube, to make John’s entry into a pleasurable proposition. Sherlock gasped as John penetrated his initial defenses, along with the >pop<-like closure of the sphincter around John’s ample crown.

 

“Oh, fuck,” Sherlock moaned, his entire body arching up off the mattress.

 

John stopped all movement in sudden concern. “Are you all right, love?” he murmured. “Am I hurting you? If so, tell me and I’ll stop…”

 

Shaking his head vehemently, Sherlock whispered, “No. Just, _slow_ , please. You’re so… fucking… _huge_ …”

 

John shivered with anticipation. Only having that small bit of himself inside…it was _maddening_. He wanted to plunge his full length into his lover and feel him clench around him, hot and wet and Sherlock…

 

“More,” Sherlock whispered, “Slowly…yes, like…that…Oh, God, love…more…ohhhh…”

 

John tried to think of something else, _anything_ else, other than the fact that he was slowly, lovingly, penetrating the body of the man he adored, who meant more to him than anything else in this world. He wanted to be deep inside, to be _part_ of him, to be as _one entity_ , joined together in primordial ecstasy…

 

“Sherlock, I may not make it all the way in, at this pace, before…,” he growled, his self-control fraying with each centimeter.

 

“Then fuck me, John. _Now_. _TAKE ME_ ,” Sherlock gasped, pulling John toward him by the hips.

 

John didn’t need any further encouragement. He drove his oversized member deeply into his husband, his pubic bone butting up against Sherlock’s arse. The feeling of being fully ensheathed inside his lover was _incredible._ Sherlock cried out, but not in pain. His fingertips dug into John’s hips while his own arse jumped and writhed in an attempt to impale itself even farther on John’s engorged staff.

 

John’s eyes were open as he gazed down at beautiful Sherlock’s face. It was _transformed_. Gone was the sardonic, superior smirk he usually wore when dealing with the outside world. In its place was an expression of complete, utterly-mindless pleasure; open mouth with swollen, dusky lips, with slitted, unseeing eyes. His expression was _totally_ unguarded, while his body demonstrated _complete_ surrender and submission to his husband’s carnal ministrations. All that, and the knowledge that _this man_ was _his_ , in body and soul, made John lose the last shred of composure he had been clinging to. With a yell, he came, deep inside his lover, thrusting uncontrollably over and over again, until he heard a cry wrested from deep within Sherlock’s core that indicated that he, too, had crossed the Rubicon, his own cock spewing forth ribbons of cum over his own belly. They clutched at each other and rode their respective waves until they were thrown upon the shore, weak and shaking from the intensity of it all.

 

Very carefully, John lowered himself down upon Sherlock’s heaving chest, careful not to cause any new discomfort to his husband’s sunburnt back. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his face stunning in repose. His panting breaths required that his tempting lips remain parted. John leaned down and kissed them tenderly, receiving a warm smile in return.

 

“I love you,” Sherlock murmured, his voice all throaty, like a big cat’s purr.

 

“Love you, too, baby,” John whispered.

 

Sherlock’s eyes opened and he grinned mischievously. “The chair just sassed us again. Said we were only a six.”

 

John giggled. “You’re an idiot.”

 

A woman’s voice came from the other side of the wall. “So’s the chair. That was a solid _ten_!”

 

John and Sherlock dissolved into laughter.

 

It was the best sex holiday _ever_.


	7. Death and the Landlady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations come fast and furious at the end of John and Sherlock's Sex Holiday. Will valued relationships survive?

There was a polite knock on the door the next morning. Sherlock ignored it.

 

John, on the other hand, was, as per his usual habit, awake and already showered and half-dressed. He wandered over to pick up the smallish envelope that had been discretely slid under the door, addressed to both of them.

 

“We’ve received a note, love,” John observed, slitting open the envelope.

 

“If it’s anything but a B-flat, I’m not interested,” Sherlock mumbled, as he flopped his pillow over his head. He’d gotten rather used to sleeping on his stomach since the sunburn.

 

“Arse,” John jibed, fondly. He sat down in his favorite chair, the one which allowed him to observe both the beauty of the Great Outdoors _and_ of his half-unconscious husband on the bed. “It’s from Lestrade.”

 

“Oh, goody. Is it in all caps? Then he’s yelling,” Sherlock murmured, his voice distorted by the face-obscuring pillow.

 

John frowned. “No, _actually_ , it says, “Spoke with Agent Doyle. Glad you could help him solve his case. Mrs. Hudson says, and I quote, ‘Burn the bloody bastards.’”

 

Sherlock shot bolt upright on the bed, supported on his arms. His eyes were wide; his expression, shocked. “ _What did you say?”_

 

“I said…”

 

“ _I heard you the first time!”_ he yelled as he threw his body out of the clutching bedsheets and grabbed the note like a drunken man. He peered at it closely, then swore under his breath.

 

Meanwhile, John was _thoroughly_ enjoying the view of his completely-naked husband standing within an arm’s length of him. He was sorely tempted to reach out and pluck the luscious fruit dangling in front of his face, but mightily restrained himself. Sometimes, it’s best _not_ to ‘rouse the beast…

 

“He told Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock growled. “Dammit, I _didn’t_ _want_ her to know. She’s been through enough…”

 

“Sherlock, you can’t save the world,” John responded, his voice calm. “These were her _sons_. Even if they were criminals, I’m sure she felt better knowing they were still _alive_ , rather than alligator shit.”

 

“I don’t think so, John,” Sherlock retorted, pointing to a line in the note. “See this line? This is the _exact_ same thing she wrote to me when I was working on the case against her husband.” He walked away, still carrying, and reading, the note. John sighed and watched his husband’s gorgeous bum appreciatively.

 

Sherlock spun around. “She knew, John. She _knew_ , and yet, she said nothing. NOTHING!” He convulsively crumpled up the note in his hand. “Why? Why would she keep that from me?”

 

“You can ask her yourself tomorrow, when we get back,” John said, as he stood. He walked over to his husband and removed the note from his still-clenched fist. “I’m sure she had a reason, Sherlock. Maybe she didn’t want _you_ to get involved…”

 

The anger drained out of Sherlock’s face as he looked down at his husband. “She knows I would do _anything_ …”

 

“I know, love, I know. So would I,” John replied, softly, as he lifted a hand to stroke Sherlock’s cheek. “She knew it was our Sex Holiday,” Sherlock smiled at the reference, “and, I’m willing to wager, she didn’t want us to spend our time running around after criminals and getting into trouble.” John rose up on his toes and kissed Sherlock on the nose, eliciting a broader smile.

 

Well, we _still_ have another day here,” Sherlock observed. “What would you like to do?”

 

John jerked his head toward the chair by the desk.  “That chair still needs to be taken to task for its irreverence…”

 

Sherlock chuckled.

 

Through the wall, the same female voice yelled, “The chair is a dick! Punish it!”

 

John and Sherlock grinned at each other. “Our public awaits,” John observed, cheekily.

 

“And we mustn’t disappoint,” Sherlock replied as he closed the distance between them, slid his arms around his husband’s compact form, and kissed him soundly.

 

>>>***<<<

 

Back in London, John and Sherlock took a deep breath of the damp air of their native soil and sighed.

 

“It’s good to be home,” Sherlock stated as they dropped their luggage on the floor of 221B Baker Street.

 

“Yeah, I was getting a bit tired of all that sunshine,” John agreed, as he flopped down into his beloved overstuffed chair and toed off his shoes.

 

“I’m glad Agent Doyle didn’t need us to stay on for the trial. He _said_ he’d send us a video of it, if we’re interested.”

 

“Yeah,” John nodded. “I think I’d like to see that. Considering those two little twats tried to kill my gorgeous, newlywed husband!”

 

Sherlock grinned down at him. “All around, I think it was a good…honeymoon, don’t you, John?”

 

“Agreed,” he nodded.

 

There was the sound of slow, measured footfalls on the stairs. Sherlock went out into the hall and said, “Mrs. Hudson, you should call us when you’re carrying something up here!”

 

“Oh, no trouble, Sherlock,” came the bird-like voice of their landlady, Martha Hudson. “I knew you two had just arrived and could probably use a nice cuppa. Americans have no idea how to make it, you know. Dumping all that tea in the harbor! Disgraceful!”

 

Mrs Hudson entered the parlor, followed by Sherlock bearing a steeping teapot and three china cups on a teak tray. He set it down on the kitchen table and began pouring out the golden-brown elixer of life the British called ‘tea’. He handed cups to Mrs. Hudson and John before taking up his own and venturing a sip.

 

Mrs. Hudson sat down on the edge of Sherlock’s deep-slung chair. “So, how did you boys like Florida? Did you have a nice time there?”

 

John smiled as he took a sip from his cup, reluctant to say _anything_ , but Sherlock was _not_ as reticent. “We had a fine time, Mrs. Hudson. I learned a great many things during our stay there. Admittedly, some were of a somewhat _carnal_ nature, but I _was_ very surprised to discover that your sons were still alive and sending you money every month from their criminal enterprise.”

 

The cup stopped midway to Mrs. Hudson’s lips. Her eyes sought out, first, John’s, and, then, Sherlock’s, before she lowered her cup and set it on the side table. Her hands clasped in her lap, Mrs. Hudson sighed and said, “I didn’t want you to know. I was _so_ grateful that you had taken care of that business with Myron, after what he had done to my boys…” she straightened up in the chair, “Imagine my surprise when I suddenly started receiving money, wired to my bank account, the same way Myron had done it. I knew, then…I _knew_ that my sons were still alive, that they had taken over the business.”

 

“An innocent man was executed because of me,” Sherlock rapped out, obviously upset. One hand shook slightly, rattling the china cup and saucer together.

 

“No! No, not at _all_ , Sherlock! My husband had done _terrible_ things _long_ before you ever met him, but I couldn’t _do_ anything about it! He threatened to _kill_ me _and_ the boys if I ever went to Scotland Yard with what I knew! My husband was a druglord, a blackmailer, a womanizer, and a _murderer_. He was, by no means, _innocent_. It’s just that…no one could _prove_ the other crimes, but _you_ … _you_ were able to bring him to justice!” she finished, proudly.

 

John raised an eyebrow. “Mrs. Hudson, there are more layers to you than an onion.”

 

She smiled uncertainly. “That’s very true, dear. I lived my life with a lot of evil people, and I made a lot of mistakes, but, thanks to you two, some of them have been… _corrected_.”

 

She looked up at Sherlock, who stood, stiff-spined, with his cup and saucer poised in one large, violinist’s hand, and stated, boldly. “I am _so_ indebted to you, Sherlock. I can’t even _begin_ to tell you. It was God’s work that led you to my back door all those years ago, and I’ve tried to repay you as best I could since then.”

 

Sherlock took a couple of steps forward, so that he was standing next to John’s chair, and said, “Your note said, ‘Burn the bloody bastards.’ They were your _sons_ , Mrs. Hudson,” he stated, quietly but with great intensity.

 

Her face hardened in an instant. Suddenly, John and Sherlock could _see_ the woman who had married a drug lord and was made to endure abuse and disgrace throughout her life. This was not Mrs. Hudson, their kind landlady. This was a one-time exotic dancer, a wild-child, a moll, a woman with terrible secrets. “They were my sons _up to the time_ they arranged the death of two young men to cover up their own disappearance and then framed their father for the crime. They were my sons _until_ they followed in their father’s footsteps and became a menace to decent society. After that, they became _monsters_.” She leaned forward. “Do you know why I accepted their money?” She looked between John and Sherlock, in query. They both shook their heads ‘no’. “Because, that way, there would be a money trail. If necessary, they could be brought to justice through _that_ , even though they would only spend a short time in jail. Maybe it would make them reconsider their path. Maybe not. I rather doubt it, to be honest. Once blood has been shed, there is no going back.”

 

“You knew we were going to Florida for our…” Sherlock started.

 

“Sex holiday,” John finished. Sherlock looked down at him fondly.

 

“Did you expect us to do your work _for you_?” Sherlock finished, his voice steely. His eyes were steely, too, as they looked down at their beloved landlady.

 

Her face softened into shock. “Oh, no, dear! I thought you would have a lovely honeymoon in a beautiful resort! It never crossed my mind that…”

 

“ _That_ is complete and utter gobshite, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock interjected. “You _know_ John and I can never resist a criminal investigation…”

 

Mrs. Hudson’s eyes were wide with surprise. “Honestly, Sherlock, I didn’t think they’d be _stupid_ enough to come after you after all these years! _I_ didn’t tell them you were coming!”

 

“Have you been in contact with an Agent Doyle in Florida, Mrs. Hudson?” John asked blandly, followed by a sip of tea. Sherlock’s eyes snapped down to stare at his husband intently.

 

The landlady shrugged. “He _has_ contacted me, upon occasion, to see if I had heard of anything going on with my former husband’s drug ring, but I never…”

 

“That bloody bastard,” Sherlock swore. “He _played_ us.”

 

Mrs. Hudson smiled. “Yes, dear, I very much believe he did. He asked about you, and I mentioned that you and your new husband were going on honeymoon in Florida…”

 

John smirked. “He warned us off. He told us to keep our noses clean. He _set us up_.” He laughed. “My God, Sherlock, he gave us the perfect honeymoon!”

 

Even Sherlock couldn’t keep the grin off his face as he realized what had transpired.

 

“There, now, boys, don’t you feel better about it all?” Mrs. Hudson chirped as she clapped her hands in delight, back to her usual self again.

 

Sherlock held up a finger. “Just one thing, Mrs. Hudson. Are you sure you won’t… _regret_ that we were instrumental to bringing your sons to justice? I mean, I wouldn’t want you to…”

 

“What, _resent_ you? Hold it against you?” Mrs. Hudson giggled. “Of course not! I don’t think I’ve _ever_ made this clear before, so maybe this is the time.” She got up from her seat and stood before John and Sherlock. “ _You two_ are my boys now, _not_ them. They gave up the privilege of being my sons when they embarked on a life of crime. I love you both like the sons I no longer have. I’ve used the money they sent me to keep your rent low and to help you out occasionally, as I could.” She bent down and kissed John on the top of his head, then turned and, going up on her tip-toes, kissed Sherlock on the cheek. “You’re my Baker Street Boys, my surrogate sons. I’d do _anything_ for you.”

 

Mrs. Hudson couldn’t miss the sudden shimmer of tears in John’s and Sherlock’s eyes in response to her declaration. She winked. “Even if it was a _little_ _bit_ underhanded.”

 

She smiled and swanned out of the parlor. John and Sherlock looked at each other in sudden realization.

 

“Are we _that_ easy to play, Sherlock?” John asked, in confusion.

 

“Apparently, we are,” Sherlock replied, stunned.

 

“Our own landlady.”

 

“The FBI.”

 

They suddenly looked at each other in realization.

 

“ _SCOTLAND YARD_ ,” they both yelled, in unison.

 

“I’m going to kill Lestrade,” John gritted out.

 

“Only after _I’m_ done with him,” Sherlock growled.

 

“Well, hello! How was the honeymoon?” a familiar voice assailed them from the parlor door. They both turned to behold DI Lestrade, his arms open wide in welcome. He saw the look on _both_ of their faces and, with a confused look on his own, said, “What?”

 

Chaos ensued.


End file.
